


"...And their heads met beneath a crown of flowers."

by perelleth



Series: "...And  their heads met beneath a crown of flowers." [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perelleth/pseuds/perelleth
Summary: This is the tale of the ring of Barahir, before it was his...and afterwards.
Relationships: Amarië/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Eärwen/Finarfin | Arafinwë, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: "...And  their heads met beneath a crown of flowers." [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969996
Comments: 13
Kudos: 22





	1. The Ring Goes East

**The Ring Goes East.**

_This takes place in the shores of Araman, short after Alqualondë and before the burning of the ships at Losgar._

“Come, walk with me, my son.”

Findaráto stood up silently, forcing himself to ignore the grave, curious glances of his siblings as he walked away from the protective ring of their blazing, heart-warming fire.

He noticed the dejected slump of Arafinwë’s shoulders, the matted mess of his golden mane, the tired wave of his long hand as he returned every greeting across the crowded camp. Their people huddled together around bonfires, sharing the day’s meal and half-hearted conversations, or humming softly as they worked on deer skins to turn them into coats, bedrolls and boots, while children played despite the cold bites of the merciless winds.

 _The day’s meal?_ Nobody knew whether it was day or night, or how many waxings and wanings might have passed since they wandered away from fair Tirion and into those deserted and unforgiving lands. What had begun as a righteous, vibrant march in search of freedom and new horizons was now tainted in blood, ashes and slaughter, cloaked in an evil that not only shadowed the starry vault but also the fëar of the Eldar, an ominous Doom that now cast a dark shadow over the subdued host.

 _Where is he going?_ Findaráto wondered as he followed his father’s hurried, determined steps up a rocky hill, then down behind some moss-covered boulders and into a small ravine protected from the piercing cold winds from the coast. He finally stopped at a dismal patch of grass beside a singing creek and turned to face his eldest son. Unsettled by the strange expression on his father’s worried features, Finrod spoke first.

“How is Findekáno recovering?” Arafinwë had left that evening while they were busy pitching camp, saying that he was going to have a talk with his troubled eldest nephew. He now shrugged tiredly and shook is head.

“As can be expected. He would not speak much, but he is finally accepting some food. I granted him forgiveness, little as that may mean to him, so that at least he will not carry that burden,” he said in a broken whisper.

Findaráto closed his eyes in despair. The horror at Alqualondë would haunt the host forever, he feared. He had seen many depart in sickened revulsion –his mother amongst them- and many others remain, like his eldest cousin, hands dripping blood and minds numbed by shock and guilt.

Thankfully, the fuming ruins of what had once been the beautiful haven of the Swan people were no longer visible from where the host camped now. But the dim light of Varda’s stars still glimmered on the remaining wisps of grey ashes and smoke that had not been completely swept away by the King’s mighty winds, a sad reminder of Telperion’s now forever lost silvery glory.

The host was aghast. The Prophecy of the North was discussed in low voices, in the secrecy of tents when they stopped to get some rest and the memories of the dreadful kinslaying assaulted them. Few days had passed since the Lord of Mandos had spoken his Doom, and the trickle of groups, small or great, seeking leave from Ñolofinwë to return to Tirion in shame and sorrow was unremitting.

Much had been lost, Findaráto knew, his compassionate heart bleeding in sympathy for his Atar’s grief. Arafinwë’s next words, though, froze him.

“I will go back, my son. I will not be part of this foolishness any longer, nor bow to Fëanáro’s madness, nor lead our people into this thoughtless attempt to defy the Powers…” 

Findaráto gaped. “You are deserting your people, then!” Surprise and horror made his words harsher than he had intended. He blushed at the irate glance his father cast him.

“ _My people_ are also those who refused to leave on the first place, as are those who refused to take part in this terrible kinslaying. And also those who would continue marching east even against their own counsel for kinship and friendship's sake, but who are wise enough to admit their mistake now and repent… I raised my children to be counted among the wise,” his father admonished sternly, watching him through narrowed eyes.

His words stung. Findaráto could not believe what he was hearing.

“But what… what of your brothers, your duty, your own kin!” For a moment Findaráto feared he was whining but he did not care. Did his father actually mean what he was saying? Surely he was tired and burdened beyond measure, he could not be seriously thinking of abandoning his people like a coward! But then, could this stern elf with the steely eyes, the demanding and unyielding expression be still his gentle Atar? Suddenly Findaráto felt his knees falter in a way they had not when Námo spoke his Doom. 

“My brothers are tied by their own oaths and the enemy’s lies; I will not follow them any further into ruin and misfortune, and they will not heed my counsel,” Arafinwë declared. “It is my duty then to save as many of Finwë’s people as I can. I will not doom those who would go back, nor myself alongside, because of misplaced pride...Not if I can prevent it.” He stopped for a moment and fixed his son in a demanding gaze. “Regarding my kin, I had hoped that we would all be reunited in Tirion.” 

Findaráto shook his head in disbelief, fighting wildly to make sense of what was happening, grasping blindly for reasons or explanations. 

“All this is… because of Ammë?” he finally inquired, and then raged at what seemed to him unacceptable selfishness. “You are not the only one who has left his beloved one behind! Many of us have placed duty before our hearts!” he accused in childish self-righteousness. 

“Do not ever think that you are entitled to speak thusly to me, child!” The voice grew colder and the steely eyes pierced him with a displeasure that Findaráto had never seen before glowing in his gentle father’s gaze. “You know not what you are talking about. If _that,”_ he spat contemptuously, pointing at the plain, silver ring that Finrod had planned to place in Amárië’s slender finger before departing and that now adorned his as a desperate reminder, _“_ if _that_ ring actually held any true significance to you, you would not be so eager to depart in search of adventure, forsaking all that you have loved and learned. That ring does not entitle you to even think that you can surmise my feelings,” he added brutally. Findaráto felt tears welling up uninvited in his eyes. 

_“How is it that he can reduce me to tears as if I still were an elfling eager for his approval!”_ he thought angrily, dazzled and disoriented by the haughty, determined, angry lord before him, barely comprehending that his world was crumbling down and that his own father was not against bitter retaliation 

They studied each other in silence, and finally Findaráto lowered his gaze, ashamed of his own defiance yet hurt by his father’s ruthlessness. 

“I would not abandon our people to the dangers of the lands of yonder just because they are fooled or misguided…” he finally dared in a broken whisper. “We should not desert them…we owe them…” 

Arafinwë shook his head slowly. Findaráto could see the immesurable grief slowly swelling within his father’s eyes. 

“You are wise, my son,” he sighed sadly, in a voice that sounded closer to the firm yet reasonable, supportive atar Findaráto had known for all his life. “And you will become even wiser, my heart tells me, but can you not see now that against one of the Powers we Firstborn are helpless? That there is nothing we can do to overthrow his evil?” 

“But surely we can oppose him?” Finrod argued, his hope raised by his father’s softened tone. “Perhaps we were not meant to be caged in Valinor; perhaps our place is back there, fighting the Enemy in the lands of our birth and bringing light and wisdom there?” He bit his tongue a moment too late, aware that he was repeating Fëanáro’s words. The sad look in Arafinwë’s eyes told him that his father, of course, had noticed as well -and was hurt. 

“And do you think this is the appointed time to test that assumption, my son?” Arafinwë inquired sadly after a long, heavy silence. 

Findaráto closed his eyes in anguish, willing his fëa to follow where his atar was leading, but instead Fëanor’s words echoed even stronger in his ears, fuelling the longing they had stirred. “I… I do not understand, Atarninya, please help me,” he pleaded. 

“I cannot help you, yonya,” the answer came in a whisper. Arafinwë’s words pierced him with a sorrow he had not felt possible to experience. “It is time for you –for all of us- to decide whether we shall tread in twilight, turning our backs on the Powers who cared for us and fed our fëar with their light and knowledge, or honour their teachings and surrender to the advice of the King of Arda, trusting the will of the One.” They locked eyes for a moment, then Arafinwë sighed in a broken voice. “Whichever path you shall follow it is for you to choose.” 

Findaráto felt at a loss, struggling against a choice he had never thought would be forced upon him. He felt as if he were walking a narrow path over a bottomless chasm. With a sudden surge of foresight he knew that whether he would find a safe course now, or he would have to follow the hardest path to wisdom and understanding, it was about to be decided while his beloved father watched helplessly from the other side. 

At last, his mind made, he raised his head and met his father’s unwavering grey gaze. 

“I cannot… I cannot leave them, Atar..” He could not hold back a harsh sob as sorrow and disappointment covered his father’s face. He watched in silence as Arafinwë pulled off a ring from one of his long, slender fingers, a ring Findaráto knew well: a golden circle made of twin serpents whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers that the one upheld and the other devoured; the emblem of Arafinwë's House. 

“Lord of my House in Exile I name you, Lord Findaráto. It will be your duty to serve and protect our people, with your life if it needs be. Do not fail me in this,” he commanded in a cold, firm voice as he placed the ring in one of his son’s fingers. 

Eyes wide in shock, Findaráto opened his mouth to protest, but his father’s stern gaze kept him in place. “Not before falling shall the child learn to rise and stand. Your path is yours to choose, yet may you never repent of this day, and may Námo be gentle to you when you reach the bitter end, my son,” he added harshly. 

Findaráto gasped, stripped to the bone before his father’s impassive gaze. It felt to him as if he had been brutally dispossessed of his innocence and thrust into a world of fear and change and responsibility. The calm figure that had soothed and guided him throughout his life was now a demanding, unforgiving judge before him, ready to step out of his life, to turn his back on him and walk away mercilessly, leaving him to his chosen fate. The feeling of bereavement almost choked him, and he feared his voice would break. 

"Will you… Will you give me your blessing, Atarinya?" 

“I have already given you all that was mine to give.” Arafinwë’s voice was thick with tears. “May you always walk in light, my son.” Thus Arafinwë left, and not another glance spared he for his fairest and most beloved son, who was a child anymore. 

**A/N**

The description of Finarfin's ring is taken directly from the Silmarillion.

There is an undetermined amount of time between Alqualondë and the Doom of Mandos, during which the host kept going. So I supossed that Earwen remained right after the kinslaying and that Finarfin retraced his steps only after the Doom was spoken.

Would have Finrod surrendered his father's ring to Barahir? I think it could have happened. We are simply playing in unchartered territory, so it is up to the reader's benevolence to accept the posibility and follow the speculations.


	2. “Nor Shall Anything of my Realm Endure…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felagund redeemed his oath and Beren married Lúthien. Galadriel grieves. What now of the token?

**“Nor Shall Anything of my Realm Endure…”**

The trees sighed in joy after moons of silent mourning. The younger beeches sang in every passing breeze, the alders shook their dark cones while the shy willows whispered by the riverside; even the oldest oaks arose from their deep slumber to greet the good news: Lúthien had returned to the moon-lit glades and she had brought back hope and happiness to the forest.

Not to everyone, a passing nightingale chirped sadly, watching the glistening silhouette of an elven woman who hurried across the forest, fleeing the festive bonfires that lit the great sward before the doors of Menegroth, where people danced and rejoiced after Beren took Lúthien’s hand before her father’s throne.

It was that time of the day when purple shadows turn to black as they unfold and stretch out of their shelters, when the forest stands stone-still as the nightingales sing the sun goodbye in their heart-wrenching voices. But tonight not even Melian’s nightingales could match the otherworldly elven voice that rose in mourning that evening, piercing the forest with the despair of an orphaned cub, of a wounded bear, of a stranded wolf calling to its pack.

So they just sat and listened, and mourned in sympathy.

And then, silence.

Slowly the night breeze arrived from the highlands in the north, heedless of the joy and sorrow that mingled in the hidden land of Doriath. It carried in its trail the echoes of fear and doom, the frightening howls of a mighty, possessed wolf that advanced on them like a ravenous fire. The forest creatures ran into shelter, leaving the grieving lady to the sole company of the still yawning owls and the pale stars.

~*~*~*~

“My lady…”

She glided around, composed, to face the pale, worn out, aged man.

Silence stretched between them.

“I am sorry…”

“You seem not too troubled to my eyes, son of Barahir. Why would you?” Her voice was colder than the Helcaraxë. Yet she feared the man, who had known ice well enough in the freezing winters of Dorthonion, would hear the faintest cracking of thaw making its way to the surface.

He lowered his eyes and waited.

“You won what you chased and kept what you risked, while losing nothing in the game except for a life and a jewel that were not yours to spare to begin with. Not too high a price to pay for such a lofty bounty,” she observed scathingly.

The man winced, wounded deeper than in his pride.

“I did not mean for that to happen,” he argued, pain flooding his hoarse voice.

“Would you have forsaken your quest, had you known that your happiness would cost him his realm and his life?” She taunted him mercilessly now, fixing him in a stern, demanding glance.

The leaves in a nearby tree shook. An owl hooted in triumph. The man sighed deeply.

“I knew not what Thingol asked of me, or the doom that weighed upon his conditions,” the man admitted humbly, in a sad voice. “I came to tell you that I am sorry I was the cause of his death.”

“Do not presume to be cause or reason, fated son of Barahir,” she raged, suddenly not a grieving maid but the proud, fearless daughter of Arafinwë, Nerwen of her people. “You are but a tool of the Valar, caught in a greater net and perhaps marked for a high fate, such as marrying a daughter of the elder kin…But you will also be remembered as the one who demanded the highest toll in repayment for a service not rendered by himself,” she accused in a voice that trembled so slightly, laden with unshed tears.

“The oath was freely made…and faithfully redeemed.” The man straightened up, suddenly shrouded in that strange dignity that made him an equal even among the greatest of the elven lords she had known. He dared look her straight in the eye, searching beyond her grief and anger. “It matters not who performed the service on the first place since the oath-maker was generous enough to extend his grace from Barahir to all his kin…And for that he will be praised and his house held in the greatest esteem as long as my line lasts,” he vowed seriously but not without compassion.

“A meagre comfort for those who would choose having him back and alive over the never-ending esteem from your line, long-lived though it may be.” She wavered as a young reed caught in a raging storm, shaking with supressed grief.

Following a sudden impulse, the man put forth his left hand –his only- and extended his fingers.

“Take it back,” he urged her softly. “The oath was fulfilled, the oath-maker redeemed well beyond his debt. Let it not be said that an unworthy son of a man abused his privilege.”

The green jewels devised in Valinor that had once glittered on Arafinwë’s finger shone now between them in the starlit glade. Galadriel closed her eyes briefly to flee unwanted memories.

_“…Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.”_

Finrod’s words rang again in her ears. Nargothrond still stood, though for how long no one could tell. But there was no heir indeed –and would never be- and the bitterness of that truth wounded her deeply.

“Never again say that he whom he died for was unworthy of the gift,” she barely managed in a teary whisper, placing her cold fingers over the man’s and closing them over her family heirloom. “Keep it,” she whispered, “and make sure that it is passed down your line along with its meaning, so that his sacrifice will be remembered. I may need a token to recognize your kin in the ages to come,” she added with kind but piercing irony.

“I will keep it by your grace and in memory of his deed,” he replied, bowing in gratitude. “And this I tell you, for I am no stranger to foresight either, that your line and mine will become entwined as these serpents are, and that by his sacrifice a greater good will yet come to Middle-earth.”

“And thus you bind me into your doom, son of Barahir. So be it,” she laughed bitterly, “although my heart tells me that it will only bring me more grief…”

“And also a deep joy, my lady, for they are seldom found apart from each other, it is said.”

“It may be so,” she admitted gently, “for here you are, rejoicing in your happiness while I mourn the price at which it was bought… Go to your wife and enjoy what time you are left, Beren,” she said then seriously, but with tender compassion. “For both happiness and grief are short-lived for your kin.” She straightened then and tilted her head, as if listening to a faint rumour that came from the trees. “Your fate is not yet fulfilled,” she warned him, her voice again laden with grief.

“I will meet it when it reaches me,” he affirmed with a self-assurance that made her smile sadly. “And meanwhile I will not forget to whom I owe this life that I have,” he promised, bowing deeply before her and disappearing silently into the night.

~*~*~*~

The owls had returned to their trunks after the night’s hunt and the nightingales got ready to greet Arien back in their sweet melodious voices when a soft, poignant song echoed in the forest and rippled with a sadness that was beyond despair.

Muted again by the overwhelming feeling that flooded the air, the nightingales hurried to the secluded glade whence the voice came.

The elven lady sat there against the mighty, forked trunk of an old beech, held in the comforting embrace of her silver tree and crying as she sang, stirring even the nightingales into deep compassion by the depth of emotion that seeped from her hopeless song.

“I hope he has found redemption through that bitter defeat… I doubt I would have had the strength to surrender my life in exchange for that of a Secondborn,” she sobbed quietly.

“And I am only too glad that you did not even try,” her lord whispered in a deep, comforting voice that echoed of tears as well.

“I do not blame the son of Barahir wholly,” she sighed sadly. “Surely he has a high fate before him, but I cannot rejoice in their happiness, that was so dearly bought…” She surrender to his tight embrace and hid her face on his chest to let go of her burning tears.

“I cannot remain here,” she whispered after a while, lifting a tear streaked face and meeting grey eyes that mourned silently not just Finrod’s sad fate.

“I always wanted to go East,” her lord nodded softly, kissing the garland of radiance that crowned her head and raising them both to their feet. “Perhaps it is time we crossed the Mountains, my lady.”


	3. A Ring of Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But Finrod walks with Finarfin his father beneath the trees in Eldamar.” A certain ring stands between Arafinwë and his newly reborn eldest son.

**A Ring of Words.**

For many turns of the new lights had Arafinwë stoically endured the numbing grief of his own losses -and those of his people- as well as the heavy burden of a kingship marred by kin strife and the shameful legacy of rebellion and kinslaying. 

And now, all of a sudden, happiness unforeseen was tearing his soul apart. Or, more accurately, the fear of losing that unexpectedly gained happiness gnawed at him like Ulmo’s tides against the foundations of Olwë’s palace. He had become a hostage of his own joy, an anxious bundle of conflicting emotions hiding under the façade of a serene, composed king –and he did not like it at all. 

There was no actual cause for fear or concern, and that irked the baffled king as he wandered his own halls at night, chased by unwanted visions that came to haunt him when the duties of the day gave way to silence and rest. 

“There is no reason to worry,” he chided himself, sitting at his desk shuffling parchments idly, trying to shake off his restlessness and bury it among the mundane concerns of tomorrow’s tasks. 

There was no reason indeed, he reminded himself quietly as his trained eye examined the closest document. Findaráto –Finrod, now- was back, whole and full of joy as he had always been, and his fear that his son might suddenly be overcome by grief and remorse and would decide to return to Mandos was irrational –and yet ever present. 

“Then why do you insist on fretting so regally, my lord?” 

His show of unconcerned brow-raising did not fool his wise wife, and he did not regret it. She glided across the room, flooding it with her presence, and settled lightly, like a tired wave, on his welcoming lap. 

“Why do you worry?” she whispered, tracing his face with tender fingers. “Why do you hurt so badly?” 

As the tale went, the eyes of the King of Alqualondë’s daughter changed colour with the depth of her feelings. But ever since he had first met her by the shores -and except for just that one time in their long years together- Finarfin had always found that they rather coloured his own feelings and offered him what he needed at every moment: peace, love, joy, forgiveness, compassion, understanding, connivance, trust, strength… Right now, they shone emerald green dappled with gold, like the deep pools in Lórien’s gardens, where the Firstborn and the Valar alike found peace and contentment when the grief of the world wearied them. _Lórien…_ he thought, and again fear gripped his soul in its cold claws. 

“He is safe, and hale and hearty,” she crooned. “Returned to us by the grace of the Valar…What do you fear?” 

She was right, Arafinwë sighed, resting his head under her chin and closing his eyes for a while, finding comfort in her steady heartbeat. Since his return, his son seemed the same joyful elf they had known, touched by the wisdom of his experiences and yet renewed and full of curiosity and enthusiasm. With grave solemnity he had met friends and relatives, and exchanged tales and memories with them. He had travelled then to Alqualondë and had knelt before his grandfather with stern determination… 

Of course, Olwë’s generous welcome and quickly granted forgiveness had been made possible long ago by Arafinwë’s own humbling before his father-in-law and his Telerin subjects as he begged forgiveness on behalf of his kin. And later on, when Elwing had plied and charmed the Swan People with her tales of Lúthien and Finrod’s role in her final success over the sons of Fëánor, while Eärendil coaxed the Powers into sending help to the beleaguered peoples of Middle-earth.

The Teleri had received what reparation was possible along the years, Arafinwë reflected, and the feud had been laid to rest. But still that must surely have been a sour trial for an Exile to relive, and yet Finrod had come out of it unscathed, still wearing his understanding, compassionate smile. 

He had sailed to Eressëa after that, to meet old friends and acquaintances from Beleriand who had been granted passage after the War of Wrath. Well aware of the manner of his son’s death, Arafinwë had no doubt that unwanted memories must have been awoken in those encounters, yet his gentle son showed no sign of being afflicted by such conversations… Finrod was a strong elf and a generous one, Arafinwë reminded himself to appease his fears. 

And Mandos would not err. 

And yet the bliss of Valinor had been marred once, and his own father had refused re-embodiment… and there were also other minor signs that troubled Arafinwë deeply. 

“…He will sit for long hours studying his hands, Eärwen…Doing nothing but stare,” he sighed in a tormented voice. That his lively, inventive son had not created a single work of craftsmanship since his return -even after spending some time in Mahtan’s forge- disturbed Arafinwë greatly. He would not mention the other fact, the visit he knew Finrod had not yet made. “What if he… he has not… If he suffers, and decides that he can no longer stand being here?” 

“Then perhaps he was sent to us so he could heal wholly, my love. Would you not help him, if you could?” 

If he could… That was the core of it all, Arafinwë thought fleetingly. He barely felt Eärwen squirming and shifting on his lap, and suddenly found himself facing her deep eyes again. 

“Would you, my lord?” she demanded in a voice that sang like the wind on calm waters. He nodded unhappily. 

“If only I knew how…” 

“Talk to him.” She could be as merciless as the sea. And as relentless, too. 

“He needs time, space…” 

His futile resistance was swept away by an all-pervading tide of certainty. “He needs words,” she sentenced. “Before any other thing, our child is a Noldo, Arafinwë… he needs words to shape reality and bend it to his will. He needs words to toy with, to turn the tides of doom, to build and rebuild the world and turn it into something bearable… and then start anew. He needs words, my husband, and you have been giving him only silence…” 

Finarfin gasped like one drowning, sought for an escape, relented and finally sunk in her knowing glance. Defeated, he lowered his head, ashamed of what she could read in him. 

“I will talk to him. When he returns.” 

Sweet lips sought his and he surrendered willingly, drinking strength from her. Too soon, she pushed back and traced cool fingers across his mouth. 

“He is back.” 

“What?” 

A spark of golden amusement glinted in her deep eyes. “He is back. He arrived after dinner, straight from Lórien…” 

“From Lórien? But...” She slid from his embrace and began putting out the candles. From her sweet, amused smile, he knew that he was making a fool of himself, a far cry from the composed, always-eloquent High King of the Noldor -but he did not care. 

“He is in the forge. Go, my lord, and talk to your son. I will be waiting.” 

***

Obedient to the will that mattered, he crossed torch-lit corridors, moonlit gardens, slumbering yards. He pushed open a creaking wooden door and climbed down an old stone stair whose flagstones were smoothed by passing time and hurried footsteps in happier times. He passed by almost forgotten storerooms and tack rooms and workshops, and finally found the door to his father’s forge. 

The place was unusually tidy, but it was long since it had been used. The fires were out and the furnace clean, except for the old bellows abandoned there. Fullers, swages, tongs, chisels and a wide range of custom-made tools for different delicate tasks hung neatly on the walls. A big hammer rested on the anvil, as if someone had just left it there while busy reshaping a stubborn piece of iron. At a long desk at the end of the room, close to the door that led to the backyard, Finrod sat. He seemed to be studying a piece of parchment under the unsteady light of tall candles –a quill in hand, suspended, as if waiting for inspiration. A brief frown marred his face but it disappeared quickly as soon as he felt his father’s presence. 

“Atar!” A sincere smile brightened his features as he tried to get up and bow at the same time. Arafinwë motioned for him to remain seated and sat himself on a workbench, still studying his son’s face. 

“You naneth said that you had arrived… It was a short trip. Did the horse behave?” 

“Oh, yes, of course. She is swift and well-mannered…But Lord Irmo seemed not thrilled to find me there.” 

“Oh?” Somehow that comforted Finarfin greatly, though his son seemed honestly puzzled. 

“He muttered something about intrusions and unwelcome visitors,” he waved around, sounding puzzled. “Then, when I told him that Ingil might probably join me there…he just…dismissed me from his gardens saying that anyway I would not find there what I had been looking for on the first place… Why are you chuckling, Ata, what is this all about?” 

“You should ask Ingil, son…it is not my tale to tell!” Arafinwë was laughing so helplessly that for a while he did not take notice of anything else. Then reacted. 

“He...dismissed you?” he frowned. 

“Quite discourteously, yes.” 

“And…” he tried to sound cool and unconcerned, “what were you looking for in Lórien, son, if I may ask?” 

Finrod grimaced slightly and shrugged, his glance suddenly unfocused, lost first on the wall behind his father, then on the parchments scattered on the desk, finally settling on his long, slender hands spread before him. He put the quill back in the inkpot, a shadow crossing his fair features and clouding his bright smile. 

Silence spread a cloak of dread over the king. “Son?” he managed in a tight voice. 

Slowly, Finrod lifted pained eyes to him. “I…Mahtan banished me from his forge.” 

“Ah?” For the second time that night Arafinwë had the distinct feeling that he was not exactly honouring his long apprenticeship with Elemmïre, the Vanyarin master of the spoken word, what with all that unexpected information thrown at him while unawares. Finrod seemed not to notice, his attention still fixed on his hands. 

“He told me to go away, and return not until I had something worth of his fires..." 

The quiet despair in his son’s voice shook Arafinwë from the worried contemplation of his failing abilities for articulate speech. He was right, then, and Mahtan had noticed, too. Finrod had lost his talents. “Actually Mahtan told me: ‘ _Bricks without straw are more easily made than creations of the mind without memories, young one, so go and return not to my forge until you have made peace with your past,’_ so I thought that perhaps in Lórien I might find…” 

Pity overcome Arafinwë’s panic. “He's been bitter since Fëanáro and Nerdanel parted, Finrod,” he explained, distraught by the unhappy expression on his child’s face. “And the loss of his grandchildren still weighs heavily on him… But he should have been kinder to you…he should understand that your memories are… cannot…But you will find them in time, son,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. The sad look that his son turned to him almost froze his heart. 

“It is not…” Finrod looked away, clearly uncomfortable, shifted on his chair, shuffled the parchments on the desk avoiding Arafinwé’s glance. “My memories are there, Atar, most of them, and they do not hurt,” he finally explained in a soft, almost inaudible voice. “Except for a few that…” As if coming to a painful decision he breathed in, frowned, gathered the parchments together, shuffled them again and finally handed one over with a strange look, half-hopeful, half-ashamed, in his grey eyes. “Perhaps you will understand better this way,” he sighed. 

Arafinwë studied the drawings. The same design, in different states of completion, cluttered the entire available surface. It was drawn by an obviously talented hand that seemed nonetheless uncertain of its final purpose. He raised questioning eyes to his son and waited. Finrod was again studying his hands unhappily, but when he finally met his father’s eyes, his face shone with decision. 

“I found that Mahtan was right, Atarinya,” his son began in a soft, sad voice. “I would look at my hands and try to recall how it looked like…to no avail. I wanted to return the ring that you once gave me and the commission that went with it…but, for the new life that I have been granted, I cannot remember how it was, less make a replica.” 

Arafinwë nodded slowly, eyeing the sketches again. He recalled it only too clearly, the ring of his house and the dark and windy night on their road to Araman, when he had bestowed it on Finrod’s hands. If he closed his eyes, he could repeat the whole conversation in his mind’s eye: How he thought his heart would break when Finrod, full of youthful enthusiasm, had chosen the road of exile; the hurt, stunned expression in his son’s face when Arafinwë had refused him his blessing and the many nights that he had spent awake, blaming himself for that harsh rebuke. 

“…I said terrible things to you that night, and you were right that there was nothing that we could do against the Morgoth…I made poor decisions and failed you thoroughly in protecting and defending your people and your children… I even gave away the ring, the badge of your House…I fear it is all still festering within,” he added with his accustomed honesty, placing a hand on his heart.

Arafinwë shook his head, busy sorting out his emotions. The pain was still there, and would always be, pain and impotence –and shame- that he had not been able to prevent all that suffering…but also the pride with which he had heard about the deeds of his children in Middle-earth…What if Finrod had remained, after all? How would have things turned out, then? Was there not some sort of deeper design depsite Fëanáro’s madness and defiance, something not even the Valar had foreseen? 

Misinterpreting his father's silence, Finrod launched into another string of soulful considerations. “I know I have hurt you greatly, Atar,” he continued in a low, pained voice. “I know that my words were prideful, my actions thoughtless and the consequences too grave to be forgiven or forgotten easily but… I hoped… if you could just forgive _me_ , if not my deeds _,_ Atarinya? _”_

Even Finrod had to stop to regain his breathing, so Arafinwë took advantage of that. He would have sworn that forgiveness was taken for granted between them, but apparently -and not surprisingly, after all- Eärwen was right. “ _Words,”_ her voice echoed in his mind, _“your son needs words and you have been giving him only silence.”_ Finrod had been pouring them out, like a waterfall, but he would also get some in return, he vowed to himself, drawing his son to his feet as he got up and crossed the distance that separated them. 

“I forgive you, my son,” he said simply but solemnly, placing both hands on his son’s shoulders and searching his eyes carefully. That was his brave child, but also a powerful king whose name was revered in Middle-earth…and also the wise, curious, inquisitive youth he had raised and helped grow into Felagund the Faithful…He smiled openly then, basking in the feeling of accomplishment, and pushed Finrod into a tight embrace. “I forgive you, and I give you my blessing, son, that I refused you then…do you think that will be enough?” 

Judging by the way his son tightened the embrace, Arafinwë considered that, after all, he might have given Finrod words enough to start rebuilding his world, placing each deed and blame in place and, hopefully, to retake his artistic pursuits, which completed his full joy in life. And perhaps… 

“Thank you, Atar,” his son said in a low voice full with gratitude. He pulled back and grinned. “I think I now know what had been missing…” 

With swift grace, he sat back at the desk and traced fluid scratches on a new piece of parchment. He eyed it critically then showed it to Finarfin. 

“There it is. The crown of flowers, how could I forget? What do you think? It looked like this, did it not? Tomorrow I will check the furnace and bellows and start making charcoal…I would like to forge it here, Atar, if you do not mind. Mahtan will have a fit when he…” 

Arafinwë nodded distractedly, delighted by the enthusiasm that rang at last in his son’s voice now that he was again embarked on a creative project. Then his eyes caught sight of another parchment full of outlines, and he frowned briefly. 

“That ring is now a valued heirloom and a relic in Middle-earth, Finrod,” he interrupted, placing a hand on his son’s arm as if to stop the flow of words that were now taking him away from the direction Arafinwë considered safest. “I do not want it replaced. I have rings aplenty, anyway, and I can give you another as a reminder, or in sign of your station…but if your memories are fully unlocked now and you have made peace with them, perhaps you would like to devote some time to this?” he suggested softly, pointing at the other parchment. His son blushed and stumbled on words most awkwardly. 

“I…well, yes… but I still have to work on the design…” 

“It is a betrothal ring, Finrod; it is round, it is silver, it is plain. What design is there to be in it?” 

“And I still have to clean the forge, and start the fire, and surely mend the bellows…” 

“She is waiting for you, my son, since word of your return reached her…Actually since you left.” 

Finrod sighed and opened his arms helplessly. “I felt I needed to settle things, here, before even start thinking…” 

“I would say this is the most important thing to settle…the one thing that will remain with you for the rest of your immortal life, son…” He pulled Finrod to his feet gently. “There is a roan mare in the stables craving a long ride. If you start now you could be in Valmar by sunrise…” 

“But the ring…” 

Arafinwë laughed quietly and pushed him towards the door. “Go and make your peace with _all_ your memories and start living your new life, child, you deserve it! And forge her a ring of words while you ride, that is what you are best at!” 

Chuckling as he heard his son’s hurried steps fading up the stairs, Finarfin picked up the parchments, cast a last look at the silent forge, put out the candles and closed the door. 

“Perhaps I should have told him how skilled a blacksmith Amárië has become in these yéni,” he pondered thoughtfully as he ran to Eärwen’s loving arms, his soul at last at peace and his worries laid to rest. 

  


**A/N** Mahtan is quoting Lord Dunseny –loosely.

  



	4. A Living Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For indeed she whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she went not with him into exile.”  
> Encouraged by his father, Finrod pays a visit to Valmar at last.

**A Living Ring.**

On he rode Finrod the Faithful, fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwë, and he felt that his heart would burst in joy as he hurried at last to his love.

With no more doubts in his heart, he went about swift and easy as a questing breeze, humming merrily as his nervous steed flew under the starlit skies and across the well-known fields that led to Valmar.

 _Forge her a ring of words,_ Finarfin had said.

And yet he felt music was needed, too. Bliss and relief bubbled too intensely to be freed by mere words. Forgiveness had come naturally to him after his conversation with his father, and his generous heart now longed to hold her in his arms forever, fears and lingering questions already forgotten. Gone too at last was the itching, sore place where the small grudge he had carried across the Ice -and into Mandos, and then back to life –that she had abandoned him to his doomed fate so many sun-rounds ago- had festered. 

“That was another life,” he smiled, threading nimble fingers on the mare’s mane, anticipating the soft touch of golden strands these reborn fingers could not recall now. “We have a new one to build forever.” 

_“And my heart springs anew, bright and confident and true...”_ he murmured happily, trying different melodies.“What do you think, Lintâl?”

For all answer the opinionated mare surged forth with even more energy, apparently eager to race for the whole night as long as she was not forced to listen to love-sick princes making up poetry on the way.

 _“And the old love comes to meet me, in the dawning and the dew...”_ Finrod insisted half-laughing, for thoughts and feelings rumbled and bumped inside and his chest felt too narrow to hold them all. “You fear she might again fail to come?” he asked softly, for Lintâl now snorted and tossed her head in obvious discontent. “Fear not on my account, my friend,” he soothed. “This time _I_ am going to her…and everything will be as it should have been. I have forgiven her. She was not allowed to come though she wanted to, I am sure…” Unbidden, the memory shot through him with an intensity he thought he had left behind in Mandos: the torch-lit clearing where he awaited in vain, and the wave of misery that had choked him when he understood that she was not coming. Startled, he blinked away ghost tears that came from another age and life.

And so he rode on, now in silence, his smile frozen in apprehension. Like a fleeting ray of moonlight they crossed silver-dappled meadows asleep under Tilion’s light. Swift and silent, Lintâl flew past quiet hills and solitary beech groves, plunged deeper into the forest.

As if cued in by his darkening mood, an angry wind slowly rose, dragging a wreck of clouds over the moon, blanketing the forest in deep shadows. A storm was brewing out at sea; Finrod could hear the slow, deep rumble of thunder coming closer as the lightning-veined clouds sailed in like massive mountains. Soon rain drummed steadily on the canopy. Invisible presences scattered about in the night, hurrying to their shelters –he sensed a distant wolf-howl, the green gleam of a wild cat’s stare, the scurry of furtive claws clambering old oak trees- as the rain turned into hail and the storm bellowed and roared and crashed against the forest ground. All of a sudden he could not see the way anymore.

“Easy, easy now, Lintâl,” he crooned, battling frightened branches that lashed madly at them in a vain attempt at protecting budding new leaves from the merciless hailstones pelting in wrath from above. “We cannot be too far from the crossroads… go on, little-one, fear not.”

At last, amidst the writhing trees, he glimpsed the outline of a hut and the ruddy light of a welcoming fire escaping through a narrow window. Too harried to feel surprised, he kneed his mare into the very same clearing where he had once awaited Amarië with growing despair. The hut had not been there then, nor the crumbling barn on which it leant heavily. 

*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜

“By your leave, oh, Wise One…” Dripping and soaking in sweat after tending to Lintâl, Finrod stepped into the hut and bowed before the stranger he instantly recognized as one the Powers; a Maia, he guessed, though his current embodied appearance reminded Finrod more of the Secondborn –tried by time- than of the eternal glory of the Powers of Valinor. And yet the mirth that simmered in the sparkling, too young eyes that were turned to him was definitely not something he was used to seeing among the lords of the Blessed Realm, not anymore.

“You are welcome, child…” the stranger chanted, laddling a wooden bowl with some steaming broth he was stirring by the fire and handing it over. “Ah, you are one of the reborn?” he added after close scrutiny.

“Findaráto son of Arafinwë at your service, lord.”

“Finrod the Faithful!” the bushy brows shot up in undisguised surprise, then relaxed in an approving smile. “News of your deeds have crossed the waters, Felagund.”

Finrod shifted awkwardly as he sat on the packed ground, holding on to the line that had helped him make peace with his past. “That was in another life…”

“All lives are one and the same…different branches of the same tree. And they all bear fruit, too. Take seat, now, son of Arafinwë, and tell me what brings you out on a night like this?”

Finrod sighed, extending his long legs and making himself comfortable against the wooden wall. “I rode from Tirion to Valmar under a starry sky, in search of my beloved Amarië the Fair, whom I have not seen since I was returned to the lands of the living…But then the storm came down on us… A fell wind awoke and the trees would hinder our path and I lost my way… I thought I knew these roads,” he murmured, still confused by how changed his surroundings seemed.

“Are you sure you are looking in the right place?”

Finrod snorted. “I knew these paths by heart in my youth…”

“Ah, but you are not young anymore, my friend,” the Wise One droned and then let escape an annoying chuckle. “You should know that, sometimes, what we are looking for is right behind our eyes…”

“ _Before,_ you mean,” Finrod retorted, and if he sounded a bit harsh he put it down to the Wise One’s patronizing manner. He was lost in Valinor, he who had wandered the vast, unexplored lands of Middle-earth, and that Maia was close to mocking him!

“Before, and after, and forever…”

Finrod winced and took the spoon to his lips to save himself from retorting. This Maia was definitely aggravating. “And what are _you_ doing this far from Valmar, Wise One?” he inquired politely, hoping to draw the strange conversation away from his own business.

The Maia chuckled merrily. “Oh, you know!” he gestured around vaguely. “Sowing, seeding, planting… a bit of watering, a bit of trimming, a bit of whispering here and there…mainly watching over the new saplings.”

“You are going to be busy after tonight, then; few will escape unscathed,” Finrod said darkly, gesturing to the window. Outside, the wind still growled like the orcs of Sauron as they hunted Elves in the forests of Dorthonion after the dragon… _Where did that come from?_ he frowned. Memories from his previous life did not have the habit of coming to him unbidden, but rather at will. “I… I fear I drifted,” he hurried to apologize, noticing the obvious break in the conversation and the amused, fond glance the Maia had set on him. “I mean, the storm…”

“There will be losses,” the Maia acknolwedged, yet he did not seem too troubled by it. “But not everything will be lost, and the trees will be renewed again and again. The hour is late and none of us is going anywhere tonight…You can take the place by the fire, there is a blanket over there.”

Unwilling to risk any more strange exchanges with the eccentric Maia, Finrod simply nodded his thanks and lay down on the pile of twigs and leaves. The occasional cracking of logs mixed with a soft drone that surely came from his host soon dulled the growls of the wind and lulled him into sleep.

*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*

_Torches, drums, angry words… He waited alone in the clearing, hope failing as the night wore on, though no golden light came afterwards…No golden light but fire; fire and smoke and rivers of blood on the water, on the quays, on Fingon’s face and hands and sword…Fires of anger in his father’s eyes as he turned his back on them, and fiery burns of the merciless Ice… The new sun burnt, too, as the dragon did, who laid waste to the north…Angrod, Aegnor…_

Finrod tossed and turned in his bed of twigs, trying to escape the dream. All through it the firewood crackled and hissed, and the stars shone cold above even as the poisoned fangs of the wolf rent his chest through. The venom burnt, and the dying elf twisted and cried in agony…

With a gasp and a sob he jerked awake, panting. Outside, the birds sang and Arien slanted her way into a new day.

The hut was empty and the odd Maia was gone, he found out after a quick glance. Gone too was his hard-earned calm. “What was that?” he sighed, pushing his hair back from his face and closing his eyes briefly to conjure back the disturbing images of his dream. He turned them over in his mind, curious. The memories were close and clear, and yet stingless, the pain dulled by a strange glimmer that outlined every scene until it all seemed unreal, something that happened to someone else, as it had seemed in Mandos: a tale of old times. He could see himself there, as if from above, could barely hear a soft whisper that might have been his name.

With a deep sigh he summoned the serenity he had seldom lost -in one life or another- when confronted with events that were beyond his power to change or understand and forced himself back into the living world. Aware of the strange paths the fëa took at times on the way to healing he carefully folded the memory away and made ready to start the day.

The sounds of dawn were soothing as he went about the cabin looking for some food; birds chirping goodmorning, a soft breeze gossiping among the leaves, the trees humming contentedly, calm after the storm. “It never sounded in such harmony back in Middle-earth,” Finrod mused. And yet there was something else, a breathing pulse of hope and trust that beat in the very air. It tingled and thrummed all around in joyful anticipation, a feeling that nagged insistently at his mind.

On a sun-warmed carved bench by the door he found a parcel of food wrapped up in a soft piece of cloth, the kind Vairë’s weavers brought to life in their looms, and a slender walking stick. Like the sun drawing back the beaded courtain of a spring shower, understanding dawned on him. The hope and joy that tingled in the air could only belong to one elusive Maia. “Olórin!” he exclaimed, and then laughed, because he now knew that the Powers looked down with benevolence on his errand.

“Morning, friend! Are your well-rested?” he greeted his mare as he stepped out into the clearing. “I fear you are not needed any further,” he added, showing the walking stick. With an unimpressed snort, Lintâl brushed his arm and almost pushed him away before returning her attentions to the grass.

“I know, I know, I am not stalling!” Finrod laughed. Searching the parcel, he brought out a couple of wrinkled apples that he offered to his faithful mare. “Go back to Tirion now, beautiful–one. I must go on on foot. Who knows what I will find?”

But even as he spoke, he felt there was only one thing he could find at the end of his path: the thing he had been missing all the long years of his exile, the thing he had been looking for –no, left behind, the thing… wait, was that what the Maia meant last night? _Sometimes what we are looking for is right behind our eyes…_ She had abandoned him, left him standing there, waiting, that darkest of nights in that very same clearing; but had he not left her behind in turn?

“Did she ever come here?” he asked the trees that had joined him in his mournful vigil back then. “Did you tell her that I cried, and begged, until there was nothing left for me but exile?”

The trees watched him in thoughtful silence. A merry chirrup coming from behind startled him almost out of his soft buckskin boots.

“Who are you?”

The small wren let go a chirpy tirade, then jumped nervously from branch to branch of the juniper bush, urging.

“I should follow you? Is that so?” Finrod arched a brow then shrugged, waved goodbye to his faithful mare, picked up the stick and the parcel with the food and started after the tiny, nervous fellow.

Over the hills they went, across dales and blooming groves and budding thickets, and always the little wren would fly ahead. When Arien was high in the sky Finrod sat under the dangling, green-bronze flowers of a young oak and ate.

On they marched again, to the south-east of Valmar and into the hilly country that rolled from the pastures of Yavanna to the very eaves of Oromë’s woods, the wren leading tirelessly and Finrod following.

Arien was close back home when the wren finally stopped on the lower branch of an elm and twittered softly, his little head jerking nervously to its right. A small creek sang down a narrow, tree-clad gully and bubbled eastwards past his feet. With a kind smile and a courteous bow, Finrod offered the last bit of his waybread to his gentle guide and took the steep, slippery, heavily forested path that ran up the hill beside the stream. 

The clearing at the top allowed a wide view of the ragged, craggy terrain before him. The path shouldered a chain of hills; to his back, sea and sky darkened slowly into deep purple on Arien’s wake. Shadows were already slipping out of hiding back there in Middle-earth, he thought with a shiver.

But not here, he remembered with a smile as he saw something glinting on the grass ahead. Bending, he carefully lifted a thin, extremely light silver ring attached to a fine chain that ended in another ring, also attached to more links that tied it to another ring… Curious, he started following the strange trail, coiling the gossamer weightless, apparently endless chain in his hands as he went.

The string of rings was a voluminous yet ethereal roll when he finally caught sight of a hut tucked between the hills and the edge of a dense thicket of oaks. A silversmith’s hut, he soon discovered, finding the beginning –or the end- of the chain in the ample forge inside. And it belonged to an extremely skilled one, too, he noticed in awe as he examined scattered pieces of work: an eagle-shaped broch with eyes of emerald, the branched, arched candlesticks that rose up like vines, the crystal glasses with impossibly delicate filigree stems, the lacework bracelets that resembled silk… 

And yet his attention was drawn to the stone column that stood on one side of the chamber, close to the anvil, taunting. Sensing the challenge, Finrod took a couple of tentative steps while studying the carved pillar. The pedestal was a nest of threaded leaves and branches from which rose the entwined, slender bodies of two serpents, which parted briefly to embrace and rim a silver basin before meeting again face to face, one supporting, the other devouring a crown of flowers.

The crest of his father's House.

With a deep sense of foreboding, Finrod slowly came to stand by it and peered into the basin.

At first he thought it was a mirror, seeing his own face looking back at him. Leaning closer, he could see the backdrop of trees, and the fumes in the air. He was waiting there in the clearing, in that terrible night, and then a messenger came and his world darkened. The clear liquid that filled the basin swirled and changed, and all of a sudden the images from last night’s dream started unfolding and melding while he watched, in awe, from above. Palaces and white piers; trumpets, towers, arrows, wide seas full of tears... Flags, ragged sails and swan ships, bloodied spears and swords, rolling green lands and distant visions; dragons, fires, armies, darkness… He saw himself trudging across the ice, hunting in Beleriand, standing in the deep caves of Narog, carving his vast, heirless halls, asleep in his chambers, his face turned to the silvery starvault engraved on the ceiling…And all through it he could breathe the same sense of deep calm that had seen him through his life.

A shiver ran through his bent spine as the truth settled on him. Even before he saw his broken body laying amidst the filth in his own dungeon, his dying, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling and a slow smile spreading his tired features in death, he knew –he remembered- what he had seen in that last moment of unbearable suffering.

“Amarië!” he sobbed softly, as the vision trembled and dissolved into the weightless nothingness of Mandos. 

“Vaster than the starvault and unstoppable as the tide, my love stretched and reached out for you in the darkest forests of Beleriand, in the deepest recesses of the earth, even in the wall-less halls of Mandos, and watched over you and held you safe –or at least in peace…”

Slowly he turned around. She stood by the door, craddling an armload of sticks, framed in the copper glow of the last embers of sunset and shrouded in the golden haze of her silky, unbound flaxen locks. Stunned and speechless, he took half a step to her, doubting she was real. The coil of silver rings fell clinking from his hands. Her eyes flew briefly to them then back to his.

“One for each sun-round that we were apart,” she whispered in a crystal voice that sounded almost amused. “I hoped that, in the end, it would lead you to me…”

“I thought that you had abandoned me,” he sighed brokenly. He lowered his eyes briefly, because all of a sudden she was too bright to look at. “I held on to memories, but all that time you were always with me…”

She nodded briefly, and her compassion flooded him like the tides of Belegaer. “And yet you would not know…”

Overwhelmed, Finrod fell to his knees and raised the chain of rings in his hands “I should wear these and do your bidding in punishment… Let me bring you water, firewood, charcoal, tend the fire! Let me be the lesser of your servants, Amárië, until I pay for my blindness and my arrogance!” he cried, and there were tears and laughter on his face as he pleaded. 

Her deep blue eyes studied him through the golden veil of her hair, her head slightly tilted, her breathing even. Finrod waited in silence. At last she dropped the sticks and took a couple of steps until she stood by him.

“I begged and cried to the King of Arda: _Let me be with him!_ but he would not heed my plea..” she began in a soughing, soft voice that reminded him of the chanting falls of Narog and the fountains of Ivrin. “Then messengers came and spoke of blood and fire by the quays and the white ships, and I cried again: _Let me be with him,_ but to no avail…”

Finrod bowed his head, burdened by the sorrow that still echoed in her long-missed voice, ashamed that he had been the cause of such grief and had never thought of it. And on she droned, her long pale hand ghosting over his bent head; not touching –not yet.

“And then Mandos came and spoke of Doom, and I fell to my knees and would have forsaken my own fëa as I pleaded again to the One: _Let me be with him!”_ And then the King lifted his bowed head, and looked at me with pity in his eyes and said: _But you already are…"_ Her long fingers caressed his chin and he obeyed their gentle urging, looking up to drown in her knowing glance. “And I knew it in my heart, that I would always be with you,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with immeasurable joy.

All of a sudden all his deeds of valour and his words of wisdom and his resolution before misfortune paled before her quiet strength and unacknowledged sacrifice and relentless vigil: Amarië, who had tamed the fire and bent it to her will. Amarië the Faithful, who had held on to him even beyond Doom… Amarië the Valiant, whose valour was no lesser than that of Haleth, or of Andreth or of Lúthien…

“I…” _Forge her a ring of words,_ Arafinwë had said. For the first time in his lives, Finrod found himself speechless. There were no words in the tongues of Elves or Powers to praise her worth, he feared. “I…” he looked at the chain of rings at his feet, and then looked deep inside and recognized the presence there, the source of his resolve and his endurance till the bitter end and beyond. _“Are you sure that you looked in the right place? Sometimes what we are looking for is right behind our eyes…”_ And then he laughed, a clear laugh of startled joy and looked her in the eye, awed, and then just shrugged. “I am yours,” he said simply, and the truth of it just washed over him.

“So am I,” she acknowledged, kneeling by his side. As she embraced him at long last, it seemed fitting to Finrod that somehow they were now caught in a living ring, her arms around him and his around her, like their fäer had been for all that time, even if unbeknownst to him.

And then she kissed him, and there were no more thoughts of rings.

**A/N:** With apologies to R.L Stevenson, Ursula Le Guin, The Water Boys and Prof. Tolkien.


	5. The Ring Goes West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As most things of Noldorin descent, the ring of Barahir had a turbulent and adventurous existence until it finally came into Aragorn's possession. 
> 
> "..my heart tells me that your line and mine will become entwined as these serpents are, and that by his sacrifice a greater good will yet come to Middle-earth.” Beren to Galadriel in Chapter 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have made a mess with the posting, my sincere apologies.

**The Ring Goes West**

Long has been the road -and painful- from the land of Light to the city of the White Tree. Change, change is the curse, she silently acknowledges and then smiles bitterly, for change, she believes, must have now reached even those who once felt safe and protected beyond the Pelori… Change, who is brother to Time, as she has finally come to learn after all her long years in Middle-Earth.

“My lady.”

“King Elessar.”

“I would not intrude…”

“I fail to see how... These are the King’s gardens, I am told...”

He smiles and nods obligingly. For all his youth, this one has always been sure of his fate, has embraced it with a grace that made him an equal among those doomed, be them Eldar or Edain. Proud of his burden, he carries himself with the quiet composure and the grave dignity of one who knows he is not second to anyone who walks the lands of Hither, she notes not for the first time. 

“Would you walk with me, my lady?”

He proffers his arm with the mix of respect and connivance that has always distinguished their dealings. Bold son of a man, she thinks with a brief wave of regret, who dared claim the gift of a Firstborn with such impertinent assurance…and such honourable steadfastness. As she allows him to lead her to the western side of the garden her thoughts stray, not for the first time, to the one whose life was claimed by another daring Man who followed his own fate.

But this is not Beren, she reminds herself, banishing the unexpectedly fresh pain of that memory from her mind. She searches his face for the traces of kinship, and forces herself to rejoice in the faint likeness he bears to those she has kept from her thoughts for long ages. The strength and wisdom of the Noldor, the pride and sorrow of those who fell lowest and rose highest shine too, though dimly, in this king of Men, and she allows herself to bask in that knowledge. This is all that shall remain of the line of Finwë in Middle-earth, and with this last admission she suddenly knows that her task is done, her time fulfilled, and her suffering close to an end. 

“I would like you to keep this, my lady, in the hopes that one day you will be able to return it to its rightful owner.”

Lost in her thoughts, she has not noticed his uncomfortable silence and uncharacteristic hesitation as they came to a stop before the western wall of the secluded garden. Now she lifts her hand to receive a purse of soft leather emblazoned with the White Tree.

She handles it with care, wondering, while her slender fingers, on their own accord, untie the leather lacings and tear its folds open.

And then she gasps.

“Please, tell your lord brother that his oath has been more than fulfilled for three ages of this world, and that it is my house that rests forever in his debt,” he pronounces solemnly, bowing deeply before her.

The Ring of Barahir.

For the first time since Celebrían sailed, a tear graces the face of the Lady Galadriel.


	6. "Not Even the Wise..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even the wise know all ends, and even the final fate of the Ring-bearer can become a tool for redemption in the hands of the Valar. 

_**Not Even The Wise…** _

_Minas Tirith, July 3019._

Amidst the joyful celebrations in that summer of reborn hope in Gondor, Queen Arwen’s brooding was not lost to those who knew her well.

Of course she had reasons aplenty, they thought. Even if she had reached the end of her long wait -and that was cause for great rejoicing- it also meant a bitter parting from her loved ones –a parting that would stretch beyond the circles of the world. And she loved her father dearly.

But those feelings did not dampen her joy permanently, and if from time to time a passing veil of thoughtfulness clouded her fair face, it was soon attributed by her subjects to the elven well-known contemplative nature –or to the weight of impending separation by her loved ones.

Until one night in the Merethrond, when her wise grandmother thought she had found a clue to unveiling the nature of the ponderings that occupied the new queen of Gondor, as the minstrel sang an old lay and the guests enjoyed the ancient rhymes that brought so much grief to elven ears.

_“Again she fled, but swift he came._

_Tinúviel! Tinúviel!_

_He called her by her elvish name;_

_And there she halted listening._

_One moment stood she, and a spell_

_His voice laid on her: Beren came,_

_And doom fell on Tinúviel_

_That in his arm lay glistening.”_

It was a flicker, as a bolt of lightning escaped from a summer storm, yet for a brief moment, as Galadriel met Arwen’s gaze across the hall, she felt the sudden jolt of determination that shook her granddaughter -mixed with a soft tinge of amusement that was the mark of her Sindarin ancestry, she thought with passing aggravation as the queen gave her a brief nod and turned her attention back to her company.

“That I should live to see one of the House of Oropher displaying such tact and diplomacy!” a deep voice tickled her ear. She smiled. Apparently the son of Thranduil was having some convincing words with the over enthusiastic minstrel about the convenience -or lack thereof- of those old verses, judging by the swiftness with which said minstrel switched to completely different matters for song and entertainment.

“And your granddaughter is brewing some secret joke,” she whispered in return, studying the annoying little smile that now twitched irrepressibly at the queen’s lips. 

“She looks indeed like one of the Thoronniath sitting on a nestful about to hatch…”

“And here I thought that she looked as smug as her grandfather when he finally manages to order the world to follow his whims!”

“That too, my lady,” he rumbled with an amused chuckle that made her shiver and then wince, as she remembered their approaching parting.

And yet she could feel how it hurt him too, day after day, to keep his light front before the rest, steadily supporting Elrond while at the same time shunning all thoughts regarding their impending separation. Surrendering to his searching hand she followed her lord meekly out of the stifling walls of the Merethrond and under the soothing vault of Varda’s stars. 

~*~*~*~

Dawn found Galadriel alone, strolling dreamily amidst the rose beds in the King’s gardens. The stars had provided what comfort they could offer, but come morning Celeborn had left her side to seek Elrond. All his friends were doing their best to distract the peredhel from sad thoughts, and it was only fitting that his father-in-law joined in the effort, he had claimed seriously. Somehow, Galadriel suspected this not to be the whole truth, but she approved earnestly nonetheless.

“May I join you?”

She turned slowly to greet the queen of Gondor, fairer than that glorious summer morning. Joy suited the Evenstar, Galadriel thought with a mix of pride and resignation as she nodded and curtsied with a warm smile.

“These are your husband’s gardens, I am told,” she said, recalling a similar encounter with Elessar only a few days ago. Without thinking, she cast a fleeting glance at the ring that had been Aragorn’s bethrotal gift to Arwen and now graced her hand beside cold Nenya, and sighed so minutely. “I would welcome your company, Arwen,” she said, noticing the small frown that marred her brow briefly.

“Let’s walk, then,” the queen said, dragging her grandmother playfully along the stone-lined paths.

“I would also listen to your worries, if you cared to share them,” Galadriel ventured after a pleasant enough stretch of silent, leisurely walk. She could feel the turmoil inside the queen, but also her firm decision deep below the layers of concern and hesitation. She would have thought, after last night’s spark, that Arwen had finally found the answer to a riddle that had troubled her; but what that riddle might be about was a complete mystery to Galadriel.

Arwen stopped on her tracks to check a budding bush. “I would ask another boon of you, Grandmother,” she finally said, her face half-hidden in the depths of a blooming white rose.

 _Daughter of Elrond is she_ , Galadriel reminded herself warily. _Not a word is dropped idly –or misplaced- in her speech._ “Another?” she asked, raising a quizzical brow.

A laden silence sat between them. Finally, Arwen released a deep sigh and lifted her face from the rose.

“When Thingol set that bride-price on Lúthien’s hand he was giving Beren some hope, even if it that was not his intention,” she began in her deep, slow voice. “He gave Beren something to look up to for strength and determination…”

Fearing what was coming, Galadriel closed her eyes so her pain and guilt would not show.

“You did the same to Estel…and to me, when you garbed my lord in elven silver and mithril and sent him to me in Cerin Amroth, so I would see him not as a mere mortal burdened by age and toil but as the great lord he could become. I have known Lúthien’s joy since then -and also her anguish, and he found his star of hope to hold on to through those long years of hardship and war.”

“Love was already there, Arwen…” she whispered almost pleadingly.

“I never denied that, Grandmother! There are no words in the languages of Elves or Men to adequately convey how thankful I am for what you did.” In two elegant strides Arwen was beside her, holding Galadriel’s hands in hers and pressing them comfortingly. “Do not think that I am not aware of the full extent of your sacrifice, or other than deeply grateful for it,” she said reassuringly. “And yet I still need your help one last time!”

“Speak then, child! What is it that you would have of me that can be so difficult to request?”

“I know I owe you much of what I have now…and yet there is one who was dragged into our fate, entangled with our doom…and is now bereft of everything while the rest of us rejoice… I worry for Frodo, Grandmother, for while Estel and I have reached the end of our toils and have found happiness, Frodo suffers still, and I fear that he will not heal. He was dragged into a war that was not his, and pitted against a foe that was beyond his powers to defeat, and yet on he marched into darkness, out of love and duty…He hopes that he will recover but I can see that he will not. I wished that his sacrifice would not be left unrewarded!”

"Such is often the fate of many noble deeds and their doers, to pass out of memory unacknowledged and unrewarded, while others reap the fruits of their toils,” Galadriel retorted bitterly, freeing her hands from Arwen’s and wrapping them around her waist, as if warding off a sudden cold of dread. Arwen’s words had -for the second time in a few days- reopened her deepest wound. She turned her back on her granddaughter and took a couple of steps away while fighting burning tears from coursing freely down her cheeks, as memories hit her again with the force of three ages of the sun. 

“But it is unfair!” Arwen insisted, chasing after her. “I think there must be something that I could do, at least! The children of Elrond were granted the privilege of withholding our choice until our father passes West. I surrendered mine that night in Cerin Amroth when I pledged myself to a Secondborn…I know I am not Lúthien, but I wish there would be some way that I could pass my rights to that ship down to Frodo…”

Stunned, Galadriel stopped to cast a severe look at her granddaughter. “That is nonsense you are speaking, Arwen! The Gift of mortals is not one to be withdrawn from them! Not even the Valar meddle with that!”

“But Frodo would surely find healing in the West, were he allowed to dwell there even for a brief while!” Arwen went on beseechingly as they reached the stone stair that led up to the ramparts. “Have I not heard you talk about the gardens of Lórien, where pain turns into wisdom and world-weariness into deep, quiet joy and acceptance?”

“Except for Mîriel…”

“But she had already lost her will to live, if the tales that I have been taught are true. Frodo has not, Grandmother. He still hopes to live on happily, and even if I cannot grant him that, I would that all the good that he has done for the sake of Middle-earth would not in the end result in a lifetime of guilt and failure to him… Is there nothing that you can do?”

“Your good heart moves me, Arwen, but Frodo’s fate is not your fault...or your responsibility,” she finally said in a tense voice, hurrying up the narrow stairs and leaning on the walls, seeking comfort in the sight of the wide plains of the Pelennor and the silvery ribbon of Anduin that unrolled lazily southbound to the sea. “And that what you ask for is beyond my powers to grant…”

“But you can talk to them, Grandmother; you can ask the Valar for mercy!”

 _I should have known that she would not give up so easily, and that is surely Celebrían’s stubbornness in her,_ Galadriel thought, not meeting Arwen’s pleading eyes.

“You could take him with you and vouchsafe his passage!! You are Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, greatest among the Exiles, returning to the lands of her youth!”

“After a long banishment,” she reminded her granddaughter sternly. “No mortal is allowed into the lands of the West, and you would that I returned to the Blessed Realm under the banners of rebellion yet again?” But she was smiling softly now, suddenly amused by the very thought.

“Please, Grandmother,” Arwen insisted. “I could not live with the knowledge that my happiness was bought at the price of someone else’s…”

That gave Galadriel pause. For a while she twisted the ring that now adorned her finger beside Nenya; the ring of Barahir… The ring of Finrod, which had once belonged to Finarfin. 

“It takes too many lives to make a life, Arwen, and they all become entangled across the ages. You said you are not Lúthien, yet you are descended from her, and from Beren, too. And they lived their lives with the knowledge that their happiness had been bought with the life of an innocent,” she sentenced severely at last. “This ring stands witness to that sacrifice…”

“And also to a promise of friendship and service between our lines, and everlasting alliance. Do not forget that I carried it for years, Grandmother, as a token of my troth but also of my choice to be counted among the Secondborn. It was by my will that my husband entrusted you with its keeping until it can be returned to its rightful owner,” Arwen retorted in a grave voice. “The tie between our lineages has been renewed by our union, the ring returned, the oath fulfilled, the debt cancelled. Would you not pay this last service to a descendant of Beren, on behalf of Felagund the Faithful and the friendhisp that he graciously extended to the line of Barahir?”

 _“Where did she get that stately demeanour from? Her adar, no doubt,”_ she wondered dryly. Watching Arwen before her, stern and demanding as the queen she already was, a queen of Men, Galadriel was suddenly reminded of Beren’s grave dignity at their last meeting in Doriath. She had rejected that very same ring then, committing herself instead to honour her brother’s oath of assistance and friendship to the line of Barahir down the ages to the bitter end. _“And this I tell you, my lady, for I am no stranger to foresight either, that your line and mine will become entwined as the serpents in this ring, and that by his sacrifice a greater good will come to Middle-earth,”_ Beren had told her then; and she had believed him. Aware that fate had at last caught up with her she sighed deeply, closed her eyes briefly and acknowledged her obligation to this offspring of both their lines, as it had been foretold.

“Let me think about it, daughter. Perhaps there is something that I might be able to do…”

~*~*~*~

For all that day Galadriel glided over her chores, wearing a calm front while she internally debated in the throes of a bitter struggle. All of a sudden the weight of three ages of hopeless fight was too much for her to bear, so that tiniest of favours, which Arwen had asked of her, had stirred an uncalled-for storm of outrage and grievance as she measured Frodo’s losses – and the compensation that was requested on his behalf- against all the unrewarded sorrow and bereavement that paved her long defeat.

Sunset found her again on the ramparts in the King’s gardens. A soft breeze cooled the heat radiating from the stones. It also carried chirping voices and laughter from a terrace below. Leaning over the wall, she caught a glimpse of the irrepressible Halflings, all of them, sitting on the walls with Gloin’s son, sharing a well-stocked basket and an earthen jar while chattering endlessly. Not far from them, Legolas stood on the parapet, his gaze following the golden strip of Anduin towards the sea.

“They are recovering fast. Their good spirits are a blessing,” a soft voice observed beside her. She acknowledged the bright presence without turning. Since his return from the timeless lands, Mithrandir did nothing to veil his true nature from her wise eyes, and she was almost always glad for it.

“But this is going to be a deep blow for Thranduil,” she pointed out thoughtfully. Legolas had turned briefly to join in some joke but almost immediately his gaze was drawn back towards the sea and what lay beyond. She felt a sudden twinge of pity for of the brave, stubborn woodland king, considering that last blow that Legolas’ sea longing would deliver, just when he must be hoping that light and joy had at last returned to his beloved forest.

“Something good may yet arise from that, though,” Mithrandir said, as she expected he would. She knew better than to object, even if she could not find it in her weary soul to agree, or even to hope that it might be so. Yet Mithrandir’s next words shook her. “Much must now pass away,” he pronounced solemnly. “The power of the Three is ended as well, and many fair things will fade and be forgotten with their passing, yet it is said that all the Elves would willingly endure this loss if by it the power of Sauron could be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever…”

“He who says so surely has endured not much loss in his life,” she objected, levelling a scorching glare on the Maia, who nodded blandly and acknowledged her grief.

“It was Glorfindel, if I remember rightly,” he murmured with an amused grin. When she would not answer, he went on cautiously. “Small hands freely accept to carry a task that is beyond their skill to fulfil, and in doing so they are confronted with an evil that is beyond their power to defeat –and on they carry still, even to the brink of self-destruction, out of love and duty…Do they not deserve a high reward for all their labours and toils?”

“Others nobler and wiser went to full self-destruction and were rewarded with an eternity in Mandos,” she reminded him bitterly, because for all that long day the fate of her beloved brother had been weighing heavily on her mind.

“But their fortunes are not in your hands, my lady. And yet you would refuse to perform a small act of kindness, which you could grant easily for the benefit of one who has already lost so much, because you deem that others are more deserving of Eru’s compassion?”

“Did Arwen talk to you?”

“Not openly, but she somehow let me know what she was pondering…”

“Then why is this required of me, who have not the power to grant it? Have I not passed my test, lost far more than Frodo has, endured this long defeat to its bitter end? Should not be you who called up to the Valar to beg them for this mercy for Frodo -should they deem it fitting and him deserving?”

“The One demands of each of us within the measure of our own strength. This boon was asked of you, my lady, and so it is not in my power, but in yours, to present it to a higher authority...if you would consent. It is not for us to judge the rewards granted to others, only to hope in His immeasurable compassion and trust that it will be extended upon us as well when our time comes.”

“Do not talk of _amdír_ and _estel_ to me, Mithrandir!” she retorted harshly, tears now glistening on her pale cheeks despite her efforts. “What did it serve him in the end? What good would it do to me, who have already lost so much?”

“I am not talking of _estel_ , my lady, but of what lies beyond _estel_ and sustains it… The knowledge of Eru’s endless pity and compassion, of which each of our small acts of mercy are but a reflection, that will be returned ten-folded to our lives…and our deaths. Not even the wise know all ends…”

“Were I to be offered recompense for all my toils, surely I would choose other prize before redeeming Frodo’s suffering, deserving though he may be…” she rebelled, for in that time of fruitless victory her grief and her longing clouded her wisdom.

“Ponder your words carefully, daughter of Finarfin. Payment and reward are not for any of us to deal, as are not judgement or sentence to pass. You are offered another chance for atonement, and for giving away pity liberally in the same manner that you would expect to receive it when your time comes...What would Finrod the Faithful do in your place?”

That gave her pause. She kept her silence for a while; then finally relented. Defeated, she bowed her head and closed her eyes, battling conflicting feelings and a weariness that was beyond comprehension.

“But I have lost so much already, and have yet so much to lose, and still mercy and compassion for others are demanded of me?” she murmured in a thin voice that came out in a quiver, for she worried greatly about the uncertain fate of her husband and her grandsons. “Who cares for my losses and my grief? _Sí man I yulma nin enquantuva?”_ she chanted softly, recalling the words of her farewell to Frodo. And yet, as she sang that line, she suddenly remembered her astonished gratefulness towards the frail Halfling, who had dared carry the fates of Middle-earth in such a hopeless quest and had succeeded, though at a high cost for himself. As if a passing veil of darkness had been thrown aside from her soul, she found again the wisdom and compassion that she had learnt in her youth, and all her doubts and all her grievances were appeased as she gracefully, humbly, conceded what was asked of her.

“May the Valar accept my plea,” she sighed finally, lifting to Mithrandir a teary face barely lightened up by a wan smile, “for I will yet again challenge their decrees,” she joked in a tremulous voice.

“They already have,” Mithrandir murmured after a brief pause, tilting his head as if listening to a distant voice. “Your granddaughter will be glad to know,” he added with a wide smile, pointing towards the entrance of the gardens where Arwen watched them with curiosity. “And your gesture will not remain unrewarded, even if it may pass unnoticed amidst the great deeds of this dawning age,” he promised quietly as Galadriel hurried to her granddaughter, for he knew who would be waiting for her at the quay in Eressëa.

**A/N**

The whole idea for this instalment in the story of the Ring of Barahir came out of _Letter 246_ , in which Tolkien discussed Frodo’s final fate and how he might have been granted passage in that last ship. The professor guessed that Arwen might have gone to Galadriel or Gandalf, or both. And I wondered what such a request would have meant for Galadriel, at the end of her endurance and when all her loses were plain before her, to be asked for yet another service, another act of generosity towards someone else.

The minstrel’s verses are taken from “A knife in the Dark,” FOTR

Arwen’s words when she mentioned Cerin Amroth come from the “Tale of Aragorn and Arwen” in the Appendixes to LOTR.

Mithrandir is citing Glorfindel’s words in “The Council of Elrond.” FOTR

 _“Sí man I yulma nin enquantuva?”_ _“_ Who shall now refill the cup for me?” Taken from Galadriel’s parting song in “Farewell To Lórien” _FOTR._

_Only one more chapter to go now._


	7. The Mirror Of Galadriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the Ring comes back home into the West.

**The Mirror of Galadriel**

She poured the water and bent over the abandoned mirror one last time, curious to see what it would choose to show her as its parting gift. 

One vision stood out clearer than the rest: a golden head and a fair face, a gentle smile and a grey, knowing gaze; those of the brother who had gone every length to help her master whatever skill she turned her wits to, and had smiled proudly whenever she surpassed him. He who had shown her that there is strength in compassion, hope within failure and beauty in all living things. He who had… 

The pain pulsed so fiercely that she feared she would choke, so she extended a long hand and tenderly wiped away the beloved face. Her heart was warmed by the glitter of gold on her finger, the ring she now held in keeping by the grace of the last descendants of Beren Erchamion. It had replaced Nenya’s cold presence, and she found unexpected comfort in its unfamiliar weight. With a last look at the rippling surface of the mirror, which now reflected the green canopy that had been her home, she walked to where her retinue awaited and rode away from the Golden Wood. 

**** 

“It belongs to you. You were the one who kept my oath for ages…” 

He stands before her, tall and golden and bright and joyful as she remembered him, closing her fingers around _his_ ring and piercing her weary heart with that kind, wise, generous smile that had always been enough to bring out the best in her. 

And as she looks at him in wonder, mighty and beloved among the Eldar, humbling himself with grave respect before the Halfling who succeeded where he failed, she finally realizes that it was his grace she had been reflecting for all those ages, his patient strength and selfless courage that had slowly infused her steely determination, softening her pride and showing her the way to redemption. 

_He was the one I always looked up to for counsel and inspiration,_ she suddenly understands. _So much that he became my mirror and I his living image._

“I wish I could have taken that weight off your shoulders…” He will always be her elder brother, too, she thinks amusedly as his concerned voice interrupts her musings. 

“No one could have walked my path for me, brother, not even you,” she answers slowly, as the truth dawns on her. “You were to show me the way and I was to follow your lead…” 

“Because those who followed yours surely would have never followed mine…” 

She knows she will never match his humble, easy disposition, so she bows to him deeply, in willing homage. The meaning of her long struggle is finally clear before her eyes, and she wonders whether that deep joy she now feels will somehow cross the waters and reach he who still lingers there. 

_He won’t tarry long, and you will be whole and healed when he arrives._

She cannot tell for sure whether it is Finrod’s voice or her own thoughts, but it does not matter. For the first time since she sailed West, a true smile graces the face of the Lady Galadriel.

**The End**

**_Thanks for reading! This tale grew in the telling. It started back in 2005 with this chapter, in drabble form. Then it came in bits and pieces. It was posted in another site as inspiration came. Now it is at last posted in the chronological order of events, with the Ring finally coming home to rest._ **


End file.
